Wherever it takes place, writing seems to require you to locate a larger Self from where the words can come. -I don’t know why this is, but as long as I am somebody, nothing will happen.
So, I go out most days, and rent a table for the price of a coffee in a place where I am probably only known as ‘the old guy who scribbles.” When I encounter the familiar strangeness at the spot, I can pull off my selfhood like a sweater that is too small.
-However, in an unfamiliar cafe it is hard to resist imaging a role for myself: literary man, mysterious stranger, … I try on a series of identities, like suits, where nothing fits and each is too much or too little of something. –After a while, I realize that once again, I am seeing myself through the eyes of strangers.
How is it that after all these years, I still believe that being this particular Thomas is not enough, even though my wife claims to know otherwise (and she is very smart).
I think God has tried to write me letters on this subject, but I have a hard time accepting anyone’s word. And after all, if what She writes is true and I believed it, I would weep and the world would become utterly strange. I would have to keep asking strangers what things were called. And I would need to learn to walk once again, how to tie my shoes and boil water. It would be difficult.
But then I laugh and take a sip of coffee. I guess I will take Her word for it today, even though I don’t quite believe her.